


When He Lost His Way

by Splat_Dragon



Series: Whumptober 2019 [7]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: "Lost", Alt Prompt 6, Chapter 1: Colter, Day 7, Implied Animal Attack, Whumptober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-27 02:50:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20941058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splat_Dragon/pseuds/Splat_Dragon
Summary: Whumptober 2019, Alt. Prompt #6: "Lost"So when Dutch had called out, asking for someone to ride ahead, to find somewhere to bunker down and wait out the snowstorm that had begun to kick up, he had been quick to volunteer. And, to his disappointment, Micah had, too. Arthur had as well, and he’d hoped that he’d be paired up with the man. Knowing Dutch as well as he did, though, it hadn’t come as a surprise that Arthur had been sent ahead alone, and he had been paired up with Micah and sent off.They hadn’t gone far when the snowstorm had grown worse, kicking snow up off the ground, beginning to whip around them.  They’d hunched low in their saddles, John only able to follow Micah by the glow of his lantern as it turned into a blizzard, so cold his teeth clattered together and he was sure he’d be stuck to his saddle. It wouldn’t be possible for them to find anything, now, not unless they wandered right into it.





	When He Lost His Way

Everything had gone to shit.

Complete and utter _ shit_.

The Blackwater job had gone wrong, very, very wrong, wrong enough that they’d had to pack up camp, leave behind most of their things, and flee towards the mountains. Had lost poor Jenny and poor Sean and poor Mac, and poor Davey had been shot down—he hoped the man would survive, Miss Grimshaw was no doctor but she was good at doctoring wounds, but he hadn’t looked good as they’d hauled him into the wagon and this weather surely wouldn’t do him any good.

But John had been one of the few to make it out unscathed, Old Girl easily weaving out of the way of the chasing Pinkertons, his crack-shot aim taking them down and, he was almost sure, Arthur had saved him a few times, although the man would never admit it.

So when Dutch had called out, asking for someone to ride ahead, to find somewhere to bunker down and wait out the snowstorm that had begun to kick up, he had been quick to volunteer. And, to his disappointment, Micah had, too. Arthur had as well, and he’d hoped that he’d be paired up with the man. Knowing Dutch as well as he did, though, it hadn’t come as a surprise that Arthur had been sent ahead alone, and he had been paired up with Micah and sent off.

They hadn’t gone far when the snowstorm had grown worse, kicking snow up off the ground, beginning to whip around them. They’d hunched low in their saddles, John only able to follow Micah by the glow of his lantern as it turned into a blizzard, so cold his teeth clattered together and he was sure he’d be stuck to his saddle. It wouldn’t be possible for them to find anything, now, not unless they wandered right into it.

(and, of course, that was how Arthur found Colter: how did that man have all the luck?)

He wasn’t sure when he lost Micah.

One minute he’d looked away, squinting into the storm, hoping to see somewhere they could shelter, somewhere they could bring the gang to. And the next he had looked forward, and Micah was gone. He’d called out the man’s name, but his voice had been whipped away by the winds—he’d spurred Old Lady forward, but no matter how far he went, he didn’t see hide nor tail of the man, didn’t catch so much as a flicker of his lantern.

So he kept going without him, praying that he’d run into the man—as much as he hated him, being out alone in this storm was tantamount to suicide. He couldn’t see an inch in front of his face, couldn’t fire his gun with any sort of accuracy with how harshly he was shivering.

A wolf howled behind him, and Old Lady shied, bolted forward out of his control as two, three, four more howls sounded. John could do little but hold on, flatten himself against her neck, as she fled, running further and further from the gang’s wagon train, further and further from Colter, further and further from the Adler’s ranch.

As he grew more and more lost.

Years later, as he stood before the doors of a barn, he would wonder if that was when he first became lost. First lost his way, and whether he had ever found his way back. Or if he had become lost a long time before that.


End file.
